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Emberly walks ahead of me into the building’s small hallway and unlocks her door. The superintendent lumbers at my heels like a stray dog, and my hackles rise. I didn’t tell him to hang around like he’s begging for treats.
I carry the box into her apartment and slam the door in his face.
Emberly places a hand on her chest and exhales. “That guy gives me the creeps,” she whispers. “Always lurking around and in my business.”
“I’ll tell him to back off.”
She shakes her head. “He’s just trying to be helpful.”
“You sure?”
She smiles. “He doesn’t need the Roman Montesano special.”
My lip lifts, and I make a mental note to text the superintendent when I get to the car and warn him to keep his distance. Emberly only needs one nuisance in her life, and that will be me.
“Where do you want the crib?” I ask.
She closes the distance between us and tilts her head to read the logo on the box. “The woman whose daughter I teach recommended this brand. I looked it up online, but it was too expensive.”
“Maybe you have an admirer,” I say. “Take a seat, and I’ll set it up.”
“What do you know about flat-pack furniture?” she asks.
“It’s not rocket science,” I reply with a smirk. “Do you want a cup of tea and something to eat before I get started?”
She walks to the sofa and sits, letting out a soft groan. My conscience twangs. Is it gaslighting if a man buys a bulky piece of furniture for a woman that’s too heavy for her to assemble alone?
“You’re not going to make me a drink and a snack?” she asks.
I flash her a smile. “Watch me.”
Step one: infiltrate Emberly’s apartment. Done.
Step two: get her to agree to have dinner with me. Done.
Step three: give her a full body massage with a happy ending. Not yet, but I’m optimistic.
SIXTY-SIX
EMBERLY
Roman Montesano is the devil. The devil wearing gray sweatpants and a white top that accentuates every beautiful muscle.
I know he’s a lying, manipulative bastard. He knows he’s a lying, manipulative bastard. He knows I know he’s a lying, manipulative bastard, yet he’s slithered through my defenses.
Now, he’s taking advantage of my vulnerable state. I’m lonely, heartbroken, touch-starved, and on the verge of becoming my mother, and he slides back into my life like the answer to my prayers.
Roman fills the kettle, opens the right cupboards to extract my honey, tea bags, and mug. While the kettle boils, he pads over to the refrigerator and extracts a glass container.
“Nice,” he says. “Did you know that plastics leach chemicals into food?”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” I mutter. “The company that delivers my food provided these as a welcoming gift.”
As he adds the perfect amount of honey into my mug, the corner of his mouth lifts into a smile.
I’m too exhausted from our argument to analyze his words or ask myself why he’s spouting these facts. Or why he seems to know where to find the items he needs to make tea.
He appears in front of me with a mug. “Are you alright, baby?”
